


Hell is Other People (in the FBI)

by themadlurker



Category: White Collar
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-02
Updated: 2011-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:24:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themadlurker/pseuds/themadlurker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mozzie finds himself in the little-known Tenth Circle of Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell is Other People (in the FBI)

**Author's Note:**

> For [foxyfurs](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=foxyfurs)' prompt: "You've got no right to critique my ascot, Mister." SPOILERS for the mid-season 2 finale, plus one big one for the rest of season 2.

Mozzie's first thought when he woke up was that at least he'd been right about getting into bed with the suits: it only led to trouble. Then he passed out again.

The next time he woke things were a little more coherent and he could make out the blank, bland walls of a hospital beyond his bed. This did nothing, however, to dull his immediate and horrified conviction that he was in Hell. This was what happened to people who played with fire, or let their friends play with fire and then went along with it when they said, "just one little fire can't hurt you"; the next thing you knew, you were burning in the fiery pit of Hell, with six demons shaped like FBI agents standing over you to watch your torments.

His vision swam and the six FBI demons resolved themselves into three, and then two. One of them was the Suit, though, who probably counted as multiple ranks of apostate angel.

Mozzie groaned.

The sound brought fresh hell raining down upon him as first the Suit's unsettling countenance was shoved into his own and then someone yelled something in his ears about being awake, which he already knew, thank you very much. He grasped at the thin sheet and hospital blanket covering him to see if it was long enough to allow him to hide his head under the blankets, but there was no such luck.

"Get Neal," the Suit was saying to the other agent, someone Mozzie didn't recognize, "and get a doctor in here." When the agent had left, the Suit returned to hover at the side of the bed.

"You remember what happened to you?" he asked.

"It was—it was Larson," said Mozzie. "He _shot_ me, just like that. I knew getting mixed up in all of this was a bad idea. This is what I get for trying to perform good deeds."

The Suit rested a hand on his and squeezed, briefly. "You did good, Moz. Don't worry about the rest of it, we're gonna get the bastard."

"So what you're telling me is that somewhere out there, running around, is the man who already shot me once and probably still wants me dead?" Mozzie asked in alarm.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," the Suit said, "we've got you covered. There's an agent outside your room at all hours of the day and night. No one's getting in here to hurt you. But listen, we need to know what—"

The door to the room opened again and the Suit halted abruptly as a nurse bustled in and began checking Mozzie's pulse and other vital signs. Then a clipboard appeared and the nurse started making a series of checkmarks along Mozzie's chart.

"Mr. ... Is Mozzie a first name or a last name?" the bewildered nurse asked.

"It's just—" the Suit started. "No, don't ask."

"Riiiight," said the nurse slowly. "Well, everything seems normal so far. Vitals are good. Mr. —Mozzie, could you tell me today's date?"

"How many days is it since I got shot?" Mozzie asked. "I think that was somewhere around Wednesday."

The nurse hummed and made a note on the clipboard. "And do you know where you are, Mr.—sir?"

"In _Hell_ ," said Mozzie with certainty.

The nurse glanced up at him in startlement, then looked nervously at the Suit. "Er—when he woke, did he seem disoriented...?"

"This isn't Hell, Moz," said the Suit, "it's Mt. Sinai."

"That's one of the levels of Hell, right?" Mozzie asked, trying to remember his Dante. The mountains were upside down in the Inferno, so maybe this was one of the frozen levels of Hell. That would certainly fit with the goosebumps he was rapidly developing. Someone had taken away his clothes, too, and put him in a paper gown.

"I don't think—" said the nurse, looking increasingly concerned and writing more and more notes on the clipboard.

"I know it's Hell, you see," Mozzie told the nurse, "because I'm surrounded by FBI and I'm not even wearing my ascot."

"The last bit's probably an improvement," said the Suit. "Not that it's saying much for hospital gowns, but at least they aren't orange."

"Hey, you've got no right to critique my ascot, Mister," Mozzie protested, "Mister _Suit_. A man has a right to wear his own ascot in times of trial."

The Suit laid a hand over the nurse's frantically scribbling pen and said reassuringly, "It's all right, that's not disorientation, that's just Mozzie. Could we have a minute alone now, please?"

The nurse nodded and hung the clipboard up on the foot of Mozzie's bed with a visible sense of relief. Then left Mozzie alone with the Suit.

"Mozzie, I need to know what it was," the Suit's voice dropped almost to a whisper, "that you figured out about the music box. Neal said you left him a message, we think that was what the shooter was after. Did you work it out?"

"Yeah," said Mozzie, whose brain was starting to swim again. "Yeah, it was—the numbers—not just a code, but a reference."

"What was it?" the Suit asked, leaning forward excitedly. "Mozzie, Moz, don't pass out on me now, I need to know. What's this all about?"

"All those formulas and equations we tried," Mozzie laughed, "all the ciphers. It was the _opus_ number."

"Mozzie! Moz! I don't understand, what opus number?" the Suit asked quickly.

"Tell Neal..." Mozzie yawned. "Tell him—the opus number—he'll know."

Then the hospital room faded and Mozzie went back to a blissful state of unconsciousness where there were no FBI agents bothering him.


End file.
